Thirteen
by MorganLeFay33
Summary: A little flashback into the adolescent lives of Rosamund Painswick, Elsie Hughes, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley, and Vera Bates. Rated T for some mildly disturbing stuff. Inevitably, there are lots of OCs in here :-)


**Thirteen**

* * *

"I resent that I must take this valuable time out of my day to berate you. What a bore to have to repeat myself."

Lady Grantham set her pen down on the table, peering over at her daughter disapprovingly.

Rosamund stubbornly lifted her nose into the air. "Mama, it was only a game. The other girls found it delightful."

"How very nice for them," replied the countess sarcastically. She tilted her head to the side, scrutinizing the precocious young woman across from her. Where had her child gone? Before her sat a miniature lady, her scrawny frame clothed in the latest fashions, her sharp features made oddly more delicate by the added scent of a new perfume, and her frizzy orange hair twisted up and away from her slender neck. There had been no in-between. It was as if she had sprouted into an adult by magic.

"All it was, Mama…" Rosamund shifted in her seat enthusiastically, convinced that she would prove herself to be right. "Mama, it is a brilliant game. You see, she hides in the wardrobe before the others arrive, and then when they do, I direct the discussion so that she can learn what the others honestly think of her. So you see, I was doing her a service, really. It wasn't _my _fault that she is positively horrid…" Rosamund batted her pale eyelashes at her mother, pleased with her own reasoning.

Lady Grantham chuckled. "It sounds like a very useful game indeed, but not for children. Lady Catherine was in tears when she left yesterday, and for that, you must write her a note of apology."

"But mother! I am not a child!" Rosamund cried indignantly.

Lady Grantham rose from her seat and looked down at her daughter in such a way that caused her to recoil in response. "Incorrect. You _are_ a child, and you will remain one until you learn the social nuances that would have prevented you from finding yourself in this situation in the first place." She waved her hand at her lazily, motioning for her to leave. "Go now. Write. I want to see it myself. Once you have finished, I want evidence that you have done it."

* * *

When she saw the blood on her petticoat, she had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from shrieking. Not knowing what else to do, Elsie twisted it up into a ball and held it as she ran into the kitchen to find her sister.

"Maggie!" she whispered urgently.

Her sister stopped kneading the dough for a moment and tiredly wiped her brow with her forearm. "What is it?"

"I…I've hurt myself! I'm bleeding!"

Seeing the panic in her younger sister's eyes, Maggie Hughes immediately asked in concern, "How? Where?"

Elsie couldn't bring herself to respond, too embarrassed to say the words. She simply blushed and pointed downward.

To her great surprise, her older sister smiled ruefully and giggled. She wiped her flour-covered hands on a rag before throwing an arm around Elsie and directing her back toward their bedroom. "Come along and I'll explain. You're a bit early, dearie, but I suppose now's as good a time as any…"

After her sister returned to the kitchen to finish the bread, Elsie fell back onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. There it was – the same greenish paint peeling off of the same wooden board, the same chirping birdsong outside the window, her same ten toes wiggling on her same two feet inside her stockings. And yet, the world was different now.

As she gathered herbs from the garden the next day, she thought about it still. It was the most giant secret of all mankind, kept from her for an entire thirteen years. Everyone knew it, everyone felt it, and some even did it. How many, she wondered? She grimaced, trying to keep thoughts of her mother and father out of it.

"Good morning, Elsie!"

She averted her eyes as Alasdair greeted her and walked past. A bit of thyme fell from her apron, and she kneeled to pick it up, furtively watching the back of his head as he left. She thought about what it would be like, with him perhaps, and she shuddered. Did he know too? Were his daily salutations only motivated by his desire to do such a…thing…with her? She had hoped it was because he liked her smile or her singing voice, but she felt foolish now. None of the storybooks had mentioned _this_.

* * *

Eileen leaned on the fence in front of the house and asked, "Do you feel any older then?"

"What? No." Sarah lost her train of thought as her little brother came running out through the doorway from behind her skirts. "You get back here right now!" she bellowed, careful not to startle the baby in her arms as she grabbed his collar.

He turned to her and started to cry with an annoyingly loud wailing sound, and Sarah sighed heavily as she pushed him back inside. She felt exhausted and sweaty and even a bit muddy, and all she wanted was for the children inside the house to stop screaming.

Eileen frowned. "Where's your father?"

"Where do you think?" Sarah asked harshly, pointing toward the fields to her right.

"And your mother?"

"Sleeping." She had been asleep all morning, and she probably wouldn't wake until noon. This morning, Sarah had stumbled upon bits of a smashed bottle on the kitchen floor. As usual, she cleaned it up until the smell of whiskey was no longer detectable, before the other children found it. It was easier when she didn't have to explain it to them.

Eileen smirked and twirled one of her golden locks around her finger. "Just leave them. I want to show you something." She had an impish gleam in her eye, and Sarah wanted nothing more than to join her.

As if spurred on by divine intervention, her mother suddenly shouted groggily from the kitchen, "What's this mess in here? _Sarah_!"

Sarah gritted her teeth, not looking forward to facing her mother today. Mrs. O'Brien would probably insult her some more, she would likely force her to cook another meal, and she would certainly hit her round the side of the head again. Suddenly giving up, Sarah placed the baby on the floor and allowed him to crawl back into the house before slamming the door behind him. She wiped her hands on her already soiled dress and ran to follow Eileen. She'd never spent this much time with another girl before. It was always the boys in the village, teaching her to curse and smoke and throw things at passing carriages without being seen, and they tried to get her to drink too, but she wouldn't do it.

It was Eileen's mother's bedroom mirror. Her parents had left for the day, and Sarah's friend was strangely enraptured by the hairbrush and hairpins and corsets and stockings and Sunday dresses. Sarah didn't understand why she cared so, but she did like the way it felt to be in that quiet room with her, with her friend's gentle hands dressing her and brushing her long brown hair. When Eileen's work was finished, Sarah was surprised by her own reflection. Eileen had pinned Sarah's hair into a severe bun and had tied the corset so tightly around her waist that she could barely breathe. Sarah grinned slyly at her new self. Eileen leaned in closely to admire her in the mirror as well.

"_Now_ you look older."

* * *

Weedy. He had called her weedy. Not just a weed, but a spotty weed. Cora wiped the tears from her eyes as she looked down upon the bustling street below her. She couldn't help but giggle at the memory of the way her cousin had come to her defense. Marie had kicked Harold in the shins and called him a "round jelly doughnut" before chasing him out of the room.

Nonetheless, he was right. She was weedy _and _spotty. She couldn't look in the mirror again today. She had already done it once, and that was enough. She looked the same as she did yesterday - freakishly tall with a hideously pockmarked face.

She had gone to the theatre with her mother the night before, enthralled by the beauty of the actresses before her. They were so grown up, with feathers in their hair and rouge on their alabaster cheeks and bosoms spilling out of their elaborate dresses. Cora had none of that. She looked down at her feet and winced, hating that she would need a new set of shoes once again. She hadn't told her maid yet. She was too embarrassed to have grown out of them all for the second time this month. For now, she would endure the pain of squished toes.

Last week, Cora had quietly interrupted her mother's talk about finding her a potential suitor. She had unassumingly proposed that perhaps, just perhaps, no one would want to marry her.

"Are you insane?" Her mother chortled in reply, grinning at Cora's aunt. "Do you hear that?" she asked in mockingly dramatic disbelief, "This one thinks she will _never _have a suitor."

"Mother," Cora whispered angrily, looking down at her hands in humiliation. "I'm disgusting. No one ever wants to dance with me. I'm taller than _every _boy…"

Her mother laughed even louder. "It's just an awkward stage, my darling. You'll emerge from it soon enough, and you'll be a better person for it. You're being tested. Being tested only makes you stronger."

Cora sniffed, still feeling sorry for herself. Her mother was wrong. She couldn't ever imagine herself becoming a delicate lady like they all kept saying she would. She pulled her embroidery out and settled in the corner. If she couldn't make _herself_ beautiful, she could at least find comfort in creating delicate little flowers and forest animals and sweet words. Over that, she had control.

* * *

Vera blew her nose on the bed sheet, not caring anymore about making a good impression. They had left, and like every other husband and wife that had come to visit before them, they had left without her. It was useless, she thought. She was too old, too ill mannered, too covered in dust and dirt. Her dresses and stockings were ripped and her hair never stayed in its plait.

They had seemed nice enough, but she knew immediately that they wanted a toddler, with stars in her eyes and freckles on her nose. They had taken Annabelle with them, stupid people. They had no idea what they were getting into with that one. She was a five-year-old incarnation of the devil, stealing food and biting and tearing the other girls' hair out when they least expected it.

They had probably been told the truth about how _Vera_ was with the other girls. Vera sometimes did their chores, expecting money in return, and that was not allowed. Vera sometimes made the younger ones cry, and that was also not allowed. Vera even got into fistfights with some of them, and that definitely was not allowed. She was a menace, and she knew it. She looked down at her carpetbag and considered running away.

By now, she'd be better off leaving this orphanage and becoming an urchin, or maybe worse. She knew she couldn't do it, at least not yet. She'd considered letting it happen a few months ago, when the factory owner had settled her on his knee in his office, threading his disgustingly grimy fingernails through her night-black hair and muttering,

"Let's just see what kind of girl you are, my sweet."

She could have let his hands trail further up her skirts and down over her chest. She could have asked him for a raise in pay, and he probably would have given it. Instead, she panicked and pulled out the little dagger that she kept inside her boot.

By the time they found him lying on his desk, drenched in his own blood, Vera was back in the assembly line, cracking jokes with the young machinist next to her. No one noticed that for the first time in a long time, her hands had been scrubbed perfectly clean.

* * *

_And that's it for my weird little adolescent thing. Cheers!_

_xoxo,_

_Morgana_


End file.
